Must be the season of the witch

So, I was in a state of complete misery and exhaustion lately. I actually was pretty sure I was going crazy. No symptoms but being tired all the time and having only enough energy to drag myself to work. I wasn't eating well. I was taking random cold medicine combinations in attempts to get myself through the day. On terrible days I was having panic attacks caused primarily by how tired I was and that everything was taxing to me. I couldn't do the simplest tasks at work (and believe me, at work, all the tasks are simple).
Finally, Saturday I was so tired I could barely sit up. The 10 minute drive into work had worn me out. I nodded off in the parking lot while waiting for my supervisor to show up. (About a 2 minute wait at the most.) A crazy woman (imagine a Martin Lawrence character come to life) threatened to have me fired for my insolence. I'd asked the betch why she needed to use the phone. It's not a public phone, after all. It's a business phone. Normally, I'd tell her she was welcome to my job but on Saturday, I just cried. The lady I work with sent me home, she said I really should go to the doctor. That I didn't look right.
I had planned to get some blood drawn on Friday, courtesy of the back alley lab tech black market I'm hooked into. (Hi!) But I'd spent the whole day unconscious, so driving to Hoptown was out of the questi. Sleeping people should not operate heavy machinery. Saturday I made a sobbing, semi-coherent phone call wherein I stated my fear that I was going insane because there didn't seem to be anything wrong with me other than I'm SO TIRED. That's when I found out that Mum had heard about this from sneaky sources (hi again!) who felt that I was in bad enough shape that my parents needed warned. Mind you, I had no idea about this. The question in my mind was, does no one think I'm capable of taking care of myself? Or was I such a mess that my usual level of self-sufficiency was compromised?
I'm telling myself the latter. But then, I almost let myself die last spring. Just because I refused to admit there was anything wrong. Nothing but my kidneys shutting down, eh? Don't need those for anything. Sometimes, I am SUCH an idiot.
OK-long story long. I got up to Kentucky. Spent most of Sunday nodding off (once almost into guacamole--not a pretty sight) and everyone pretty much thought I was a walking advertisement for mono. An idea that had only occurred to me on a whim. I haven't exactly been kissing a lot of people lately. In fact, the last time I kissed anyone it was...way too long ago. Close to 9 months, I think. Wow, I'm awesome.
Although someone kissed me recently. No exchange of saliva was involved.
If I was to have mono I would've had to have gotten it from one of the awful children that tend to sneeze in my general direction and drool on the mouse and keyboard. I wash my hands obsessively, but that doesn't mean much.
I called off work today and had blood drawn and sneakily worked upon. Turns out, I don't have mono. I'm just really, really tired. That leads right back to the original theory that I'm crazy. But everyone I've talked to assured me that just because it's not obvious that something's wrong, doesn't mean that there isn't something wrong.
You'd think that someone as addicted to House as I am would know that already.
Now, there is a possibility that I have Epstein-Barr virus. Which is like mono's annoying but less popular cousin. I have all the symptoms. Right down to the whole thinking I'm crazy thing. I remember a particularly touching episode of the Golden Girls where Dorothy found out she had EBV but not before she'd been twisted around and begun to fear for her sanity.
I guess there's nothing I can do but take it easy and hope that this passes or at least gets better. I didn't mean to scare people. I was frightened. The way I've been feeling isn't normal. Not for me, at least. I don't need to sleep 15 hours a day usually. The panic and fear was overwhelming. I didn't think anyone would believe me if I said I was so tired I couldn't wash the dishes or even heat a can of soup. It sounded so weak. I was afraid that everyone would just think I was silly and making it up in attempt to get sympathy. But I don't want sympathy. I just want to feel like I usually do. That's nothing special, but it's better than I have been.
I really don't have any idea what's wrong with me. But I know that, based on the lab work, there's something wrong with me. And that actually makes me feel a lot better. Tomorrow, I'm going to take one more day off (even though I need the money--eh, don't we all?) and rest a little more. Then it's back to work and hopefully, I'll be able to get through the day at work.
Odd thing that happened when I got home from Kentucky--my Dish wasn't working. So I reset it and then unplugged it and it reloaded. When it came back on the screen said my service had been disconected because of non-payment. The phone computer voice said that I owed $250. My bank statement said my last payment went through 7 days ago. Four days ago, that would've made me think I had no grasp of reality. Today, I asked a few questions (once I got ahold of a real person) and discovered that it was a computer glitch. I, for one, do not welcome our new computer overlords.

This is not a cry for help. Cries for help look like this--"Another day, everything is the same. Very bored. Kind of lonely. You know ,the usual."

This is going to sound really melodramatic. But I'm not trying for attention. I've been far more melodramatic at times and with no more or less provocation. I just have this need to write this out.Somewhere where it won't go away unless I disappear it. Because if I'm wrong I can reference it later to prove that I don't know what I'm talking about. If I'm right then I'll know when the warning really kicked up. It seems like something that might be good to know.
There is something wrong. My chest hurts. My heart has been pounding in my chest. But my heart rate is normal. My back hurts-a lot. I've spent much of the day trying to fight off the urge to scream. At one point I just started shaking. I thought I was going to cry. But I didn't. I don't know how else to describe it. I feel completely out of control. Yet, I'm in control. No one seems to see anything abnormal. But I know-I can tell. I can feel it and I am scared.
I thought about trying to get into see a doctor. Same song, of course. I know what's wrong with me and the treatment is worse than the symptoms. Right? That's what I keep telling myself. Right now--I'm not sure. Three and a half hours to go before I can go home. Three and a half hours.
I'll be fine. Of course, I'll be fine. Nothing else to be.
It's just PMS.
It's the season.
It's nothing.
I'm imagining it.
That's all.

I'll bring you flowers and a .22 with shells

If my current soundtrack is any indication I'm in a hard rockin' mood. "Live and Let Die" (GnR version) just finished blasting from the speakers. I think I need to turn the volume down. It's not helping my headache.

Dunno if I'm sick or having a negative reaction to the herbal supplements I've been taking. Could be both. I know I should go out the house but there's nothing I can think I want to do enough to justify going out into the rain. The dog hasn't even had a walk today. He doesn't seem too upset about that. If he is he's hiding it well.
There's nothing I want to do. I'm feeling very lash-y right now. Like my fuse is almost at its end. Everything makes me want to attack or cry. But I don't have the energy to do either. I'm pre-menstrual. Might as well negate the emotions. That's the tradition.

You're just tired.
It must be that time of the month.
Have you been eating right?
Stop wallowing in self pity. No one wants to hear it.

So, I have a stack of movies but they don't interest me. I've got the bed folded out and despite two tries I haven't managed to put it back into couch form yet. I'm making a pot roast for dinner. For some reason. It doesn't sound very appetizing.

My head really hurts. My eyes too. My back aches. And my nose is burning. Is that normal? I'm having concentration issues. I hope I'm sick. The alternative is kind of alarming.

I'm going to make some tea and maybe swallow some 'Tussin. 'Tussin fixes everything.

Update: Ever watch a movie when you've just taken some cold medicine and you can't tell whether it's a really trippy movie or you're high? Pretty sure I just did.

Everybody must get stoned

Well, it is I, your intrepid reporter coming to you whacked out on cold medicine from the meeting room at work. My head feels like it's inside a pillow and the stuffing is shifting around and making its way into my ears and mouth. Despite the medication my brain hurts and thoughts make almost all the way from their creation point to my mouth before I lose all track of them. It sucks. To top it off there's 2 good shows tonight and I really don't think I should hit the town what with how I feel like someone's been hitting me in the back with a cricket bat.

My life has nothing of interest going on in it, hence my rare updates. I've learned how to get movies onto my iPod. That's exciting. I've also learned how to connect my iPod to my TV so I can watch them in glorious 19in as opposed to luxurious 2.5in. That's about the highpoint of my recent escapades. Whoot.

I want to share a few thoughts about House now. If you don't watch House this may bore you or it may provide fascinating insight into my character. I'm not writing this on one of the forums because I don't know if I'm that comfortable sharing this much of me with strangers that I kinda virtual reality know. Hell, I'm not that comfortable sharing with people I do know. That's why I so appreciate how little of what I write here is held against me IRL.

ANYHOO-Last night House went into rehab (voluntarily) seemed to be coming off of Vicodin and was able to get out of going to jail. Not a big surprise ending since they can't exactly send the star of the show to prison. It's not OZ after all. At the end Wilson handed House some pills which House then popped in the traditional manner and Wilson realized that House was using again. Or had never stopped. He didn't seem hurt, or even terribly shocked. He laughed and accepted it as inevitable. This didn't bother me. Maybe it should. But it didn't and this is why. There are addicts and then there is addiction.

An addict is someone that can't function in the world. The alcoholic that loses his/her job because of constantly calling in late or not coming in at all. That's an addict. The user of street drugs that sells everything he/she owns to buy drugs. That's an addict. The person that loses everything (and everyone) in order to be with the drug of choice. That person is an addict. The dailly user is not necessarily an addict. The person that drinks everyday-gets drunk everyday-is addicted. The wake and bake pothead-is addicted. Assuming neither of these people risks anything but their own personal safety (by which I mean does not drive or go skydiving while under the influence) there's no harm done.

OH! But what about the damage caused to the people around them? Most addicted people have the sense to surround themselves with other addicts. Or not surround themselves at all. This is not true for all relationships, and I am sure if anyone ever read this there would be an uproar, but I don't think addicted people are the most popular people on the planet. That minimizes the possibility of harming another person. Few people want to cause harm to anyone else and the addicted maintains enough sense to know that. It's when the addicted becomes an addict that damage is done. It's a fine line, but it is a line.

For example (personal note) I am almost undeniably addicted to alcohol. The action of drinking-the way it allows me to function in society and the way it allows me to turn off the world around me when necessary. I don't drink simply to get drunk. I drink because I drink. But I am not an addict. I am, most certainly, an unmedicated manic-depressive. I chose that. I can either battle the loss of hope for a future and the complete drain of personality and enjoyment of life that came with being on Lithium or the bottle. Lithium made me able to function-but I wasn't happy. I couldn't think, couldn't carry on interesting conversations. My life lacked all joy. In fact, it lacked any emotion at all. Now, I have emotion. Strong emotion. It's a constant battle inside my head just to remain sane. It sucks-but it's better than the alternative. Others might say that Lithium-me is real. Some might even say that me on Lithium was how I am supposed to be. I disagree. Allow me to point out the logic in that strawman. If the personality I have on Lithium is my true personality then the alcoholic when drunk is equally the actual personality.


Does this have anything to do with House? Yes. House is addicted to Vicodin. He knows that. Wilson knows that. Wilson tried and failed on several occasions to get House to give up the pills. The response was the Christmas Eve overdose. They both know that they will do whatever they feel like they have to in dire situations. It's their ace in the hole. They're willing to desert each other. Wilson has always been the only person that spent time with House that didn't have to. He's bore the wrath of that crazy bitch Cameron and the most awesome Cuddy. He left his best friend to possibly choke on his own vomit. House appciated that, in his own way he even said so. The episode's title (Words and Deeds) says it all. House's (words) apology was sincere. Wilson's (deeds) walking away on Christmas Eve showed that he isn't a complete doormat. He is, however, accepting of House as he is.

The disgust some people seem to be expressing about the last scene is confusing to me. Isn't that what everyone wants from their TV shows? Happy endings? There it is. Everyone's happy. Except maybe Cameron. But that makes me very happy. Very, very happy.